


The Marchwardens

by RoseoftheBrightSea



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Marchwardens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 03:56:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20383279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseoftheBrightSea/pseuds/RoseoftheBrightSea
Summary: Snippets from the lives of Doriath's and Lothlórien's greatest warriors.





	1. Beleg: Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mellaril](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Mellaril).

They had called him brave. When the king’s riders had entered the village, calling for volunteers to defend Doriath’s borders against the dark and twisted creatures rising from the east, Beleg had stepped forward with a spear in hand and proclaimed his loyalty to king and country. The royal messenger had clapped him on the shoulder and called him an example to all of Doriath.

A thin steam trailed down his leg. The elves on either side of Beleg did not seem to notice, much less care, but Beleg’s cheeks still burned hot. He was supposed to be brave. Brave men did not piss themselves with the enemy on the horizon.

He clutched his spear tighter, as if the weapon might offer some comfort. It was different than the fishing spear he’d held upon his enlistment. The shaft was made from white oak, the head from pure steel. It was the one benefit of his early enlistment. There had not been enough weapons for them all, and many of the other recruits carried hunting knives and clubs for ropemaking. Beleg’s armor was much the same as theirs, though – mismatched leathers and padded or beaded breastplates. Thingol’s lieutenants prioritized the unit leaders when passing out helmets and cuirasses, only Beleg suspected they had run out of such items quickly. It was said Elu Thingol had commissioned the Dwarves of Belegost for more, but the enemy came too soon. Beleg was left to face them with a spear in his hand, cotton on his chest, and piss down his leg.

“It will be alright.”

Beleg glanced to his left and met the eyes of his fellow recruit. Half a head shorter than Beleg, she was one of the less fortunate recruits. Armed with only a club and protected by a small breastplate of blue and orange beads, he was surprised to see a smile on her face.

“How?” Beleg croaked.

She nodded down the line, to the other straight-backed soldiers. “My sister’s participated in some of the skirmishes at the border. She says the enemy is disorganized, even going after each other during a fight. All we have to do is stay by each other.”

“I’ve never…” Beleg’s throat went dry before he could finish.

“You’ve been hunting, haven’t you? When do you do better -- when you’re working as a team or struggling against the others for the glory of the biggest kill?”

“T-together?”

She nodded again and Beleg noticed the dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. “It’s the same principle. You’ve got my back, I’ve got yours. They see this as a competition, but we’ve got a better reason to care about how this fight turns out. That’ll see us through.”

Beleg squeezed his eyes tight and pictured his parents, their home in the great oak, fishing with his brother in the river. Then his mind turned towards the gray-skinned creatures, of their fire, and the shrill cry of metal against metal.

“I --”

A trumpet cut him off. Their captain raised his sword and cried out, and the line of soldiers pushed Beleg forward. His mind went blank.

* * *

Beleg heard their calls for survivors. A few voices cried back, but Beleg did not have the energy to try. Or perhaps he did. Either way, he was unwilling to try. Ignoring the stench of blood and the violent thundering in his head, Beleg simply stared at the headless corpse. The blue and orange beads were stranded beside her, dyed brow by blood and mud.

He tried to remember how she had died, but the entire battle was a blur. Every time he tried to hold a memory in his mind, his stomach would rebel. There was nothing left to empty, of course, but that did not stop it from trying.

Beleg remained curled beside the corpse for the better part of an hour before one of the search party spotted him. It was no wonder the rider had survived the battle, all gilded in steel. Beleg continued to stare at the corpse.

“It’s alright, lad. It’s over. I’ll bri--”

“It’s not alright.”

The rider hesitated, then followed Beleg’s eyes to the body. “I am sorry.”

Beleg croaked out a horrible half-laugh, half-sob. “She said it would be alright if we just stayed together, but it isn’t. It isn’t alright.”

The rider stepped forward carefully, with his hands outstretched as if approaching a wild creature. “We won the day. The enemy’s forced turned back. I know the loss is still hard, but we won.”

“Won.” The word felt hollow on Beleg’s tongue. He turned to properly face the rider for the first time. “I didn’t even know her name.”

The rider’s eyes fell to the body once more and whispered a prayer for the fallen recruit. Then he turned towards Beleg, and asked in a voice that rang out like iron, “What is your name, soldier?”

“What does it matter?”

The rider’s face remained stern .“What is your name?”

He was too sore to resist, too tired to think of a lie. “Beleg, son of Laerdil.”

“I am Mablung, lieutenant of Elu Thingol.” The rider--Mablung--closed his eyes, as if in pain. He took in a deep, staggered breath. “The world is changing, Beleg, son of Laerdil. This will not be the last encounter with the enemy’s forces. Our queen speaks of some means to keep Bauglir from our lands, but I fear it will not be enough. There will still be battles like this, countless deaths at the hands of foreign blades.”

Beleg stiffened, the violent hammering returning to his head. “Can we ever truly win this fight?”

“I do not know,” Mablung admitted. “But I mean to try. And I will need others, like those who would cry for a stranger’s loss.”

“I am no warrior.” Beleg laughed through bitter tears, suddenly aware that his spear was gone, lost to the blur of battle.

“That cannot be entirely true, if you survived this day.” Mablung stretched out his hand for Beleg to take. “I can teach you to wield a blade and bow.”

Beleg sniffed and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “I know how to use a bow.”

Mablung laughed and thrust his arm out further. “Then put the skill to use, Beleg. I need men who will care.”

Beleg looked back at the headless corpse, then nodded and reached out for Mablung’s hand.


	2. Túrin: Ceremony

The cloak felt heavy on Túrin’s back. A trick of the mind, he knew. Thingol would never let his marchwardens be burdened by unnecessary weight. Queen Melian had spun the thing herself, and she would have smacked Túrin on the head to hear him question her abilities.

He shook his head at the thought and dropped his hand to his sword. For all the strange heaviness of the cloak, the sword felt impossibly light. Túrin smiled as he drew the blade from its scabbard.  _ I am no longer a boy, hiding from the scolding of his elders. _

A marchwarden’s blade. In truth, it was a ceremonial weapon. In skirmishes on the border, marchwardens bore simple weapons, and most preferred spears and bows to swords. Túrin’s sword was anything but simple. The was straight and narrow, decorated with vines and inscribed with solemn oaths to protect Doriath and honor Elbereth. The hilt was pure silver and set two large central emeralds on either side. Even the leather scabbard was a work of art. Small rubies and emeralds dotted the silver case, arranged to look like rose vines.

“Should I call off the ceremony?”

T úrin startled and almost dropped the sword. Instinctively, he raised the blade, and quickly regretted the impulse. Beleg raised an eyebrow impatiently.

“It is a serious offense to draw a blade in the king’s halls,” the captain reminded him.

“I am sorry, sir.” Túrin smiled sheepishly and sheathed his sword quickly. “I have just dreamt of this day for so long, I suppose the excitement went to my head.”

Beleg’s expression softened, though he kept his eyes on Túrin’s hands.

The Captain of the Marchwardens was dressed in a fine green suit, embroidered with golden leaves. He even wore thin chains and dangling emeralds and sapphires on his throat and ears. It was an odd sight, compared to Beleg’s usual garb. When engaging with the enemy, the captain wore tanned leathers and steel and preferred light, simple clothing when out of battle. Túrin gestured to the outfit.

“I admit, I am surprised.”

“Don’t be,” Beleg said with a grin. “This is a celebration! It is not every day that the realm sees a new marchwarden, nor that I gain a new brother.”

Túrin’s chest puffed with pride, but he tried not to show it. Twenty-three others would be presented to the court of Doriath. It was only once every fifty years such a celebration was held, and the others had been training for decades to take their place under the legends of Mablung and Beleg Cúthalion. Yet Túrin had earned his place in just ten years. Such was the strength of Hador’s line.

“Is that why we dress up so?” Túrin asked, patting the sword. “For the celebration?”

“In part. The marchwardens are the pride and joy of Doriath. We ought to look the part.”

“Then why do your rangers not take out such weapons in battle? It would be a glorious sight, would it not? The orcs–”

“We don’t fight pitched battles like the Noldor, Túrin. Not anymore. The jewels would be easier to spot and I’d rather the enemy not have an added incentive to slit our throats.” Beleg sighed and shook his head. “I came to collect you. The king has summoned you to swear your vows.”

Túrin’s heart leapt from his chest. Beleg snorted and muttered something about the youths nowadays. “Ready?”

“I am,” Túrin said, almost before Beleg could finish the word.

He followed Beleg down the twisting halls of Menegroth, his home for the past eleven years. Somewhere behind them, in the king’s great dining hall, he could hear the quick, booming sounds of drums. Voices, too, carried through Menegroth’s halls, but he could not quite make out their words.

_ They are singing for me, _ Túrin realized.

Beleg, however, led him in the opposite direction. The singing faded as they descended further into Thingol’s dwelling. They did not stop at the great throne room, as Túrin had expected, but Túrin thought better of asking where they were going.

Beleg led him down a stairwell, past two of the king’s personal guard. Túrin grinned at them as they went past. They might have the honor of guarding Elu Thingol, but  _ he  _ would ride Doriath’s borders. What action would they see in Menegroth’s deep halls?

They descended further and the air grew cooler. The walls were illuminated by a thin, strange blue coating. Túrin eyed it suspiciously, but Beleg did not seem to mind, and so further down they went. When they finally reached the bottom of the stairway, Túrin gasped.

Elu Thingol sat on a small throne, carved into the walls itself. Beside him stood Queen Melian and Captain Mablung, their faces lit by a swirling pool. The same strange blue substance seemed to line the base of the pool, giving the small cave an eerie look. Shadows danced across the walls as Thingol beckoned him closer. Túrin glanced around for the others who would be sworn in as marchwardens, but it was only the royal couple and captains who stood with him.

_ This place is sacred to the Lord of Waters _ , a crystal-like voice entered his head. Melian watched him with bright, twinkling eyes.  _ Even here, so far from the sea, the Firstborn see him as their protector. _

Túrin dropped to one knee before the king. Thingol smiled gently and rose from the rocky throne to kneel in front of Túrin, placing his hands on Túrin’s shoulders.

“It is a hard thing, to swear loyalty to a land you were not born to,” Thingol said gently. Behind the king, Beleg took his place besides Mablung. Both captains watched him with set jaws. “There is no shame in walking away, my boy. None will think less of you if you do not wish to serve as my marchwarden.”

Túrin opened his mouth to protest, but snapped it shut before the words spilled out. Thingol’s smile tightened, and he patted Túrin’s arm. 

“Túrin, son of Húrin Thalion and Morwen Eledhwen, Lord of the House of Hador, do you swear to carry yourself as an example to all free people of Arda?”

Túrin could feel his heart trying to out of his chest. “I swear it, in the name of Aran Einor and Elebreth.”

“Do you swear to defend the realm of Doriath, to find your glory in its survival, to find meaning in its strength?”

“I swear it, in the name of Araw and Ulu.”

“Do you swear to protect the innocent and weak, and to never consort with those who would do them harm?”

“I swear it, upon the name of Nienna and Badhron.”

Thingol brought his hands to Túrin’s cheeks and kissed his brow. Túrin tensed, surprised by the oddly affectionate display, but none of the others seemed surprised by it.

“By the lords and ladies of the Valar, I, Elu Thingol, name you a marchwarden of Doriath.” Thingol motioned to Beleg and Mablung. “Follow your captains, Túrin. Now and in all things. They will guide you to the lower pools where you will join your fellow marchwardens. Cleanse yourself. Pray to The One. And when you have finished, join the celebrations. Tonight is for the marchwardens.”

* * *

Thingol watched the boy go, his face uncharastically bright with cheer. Beleg had absorbed Túrin’s joy, if his barely concealed grin was anything to go off of. Mablung, however, met the king’s eye with a solemn expression. Thingol expected him to stay behind, but the weary captain turned and escorted Túrin to the holy pools without another word.

Melian waited until the boy was out of earshot. Thingol was grateful for that. He had not mentioned his plan to her, aware she would object.


	3. Mablung: Mourning

Mablung had grown accustomed to his small shadow. A quiet, timid thing, never one to interfere, she was easy to overlook. So unlike her mother or brother. When Túrin or Morwen entered the room, there was an intensity to it, a demand to be recognized. Niënor’s presence was more subtle. Gentler, perhaps. Mablung was grateful for that. He would not have stood for the others there, but Niënor he could accept.

She stood a respectful distance away, watching Mablung inquisitively as he stood before the relief. The sculptors had done a marvelous job of it. Each figure carved into the smooth black stone was at least twice the size of Mablung. Their faces were serene, their eyes turned up to the sky. On the far side of the scene were a pile of swords, spears, axes, and bows, and each figure was turned to face a large doorway. Beyond were the remains of his brothers and sisters. Or, at least, those they had been able to retrieve.

Mablung did not convulse with sobs, did not tremble. Nor did he howl out his pain, letting it reverberate through Menegroth’s caves. He did not even realize the tears on his face until one dripped from his chin.

They had finished Beleg’s relief quickly. The fallen captain’s lips were curled up into a small smile, as if secretly pleased that at long last, he would be allowed to rest. Like all of the other carved figures, one of his arms was outstretched toward the crypt, meant to invite in visitors to remember and grieve the lost marchwardens. There was no body in Beleg’s crypt, however. They had filled it with wildflowers instead.

Dead. They were all dead. His brothers and sisters at arms. His wardens. The men and women he had sworn to protect, to lead at the cost of his own life. So many now lay in the dark, cold crypts of Menegroth. Their  _ fëar  _ walked the Halls of Mandos, leaving Mablung alone to still guard the borders of Doriath. 

“L-lord Mablung?”

He turned, surprised to see Niënor so close. She stood by his side and tentatively placed a hand against his shoulder. She gave him a wide smile, though her blue eyes were bright and round with concern. “You are trembling, sir.”

Mablung looked down at his hands and saw that what she said was true. He laughed in spite of himself and wiped at his eyes.

Niënor pulled a handkerchief from her sleeves and handed it to the old captain. He accepted it with thanks, briefly pausing to admire the needlework. Hador’s heraldic device was sewn into one corner, Bëor’s in another.

“Have I ever shown you sigil of the marchwardens?” Mablung asked. His voice was thick with emotion, still, but Niënor pretended not to notice.

“No, lord, I do not think you have.”

Mablung pointed to the top of the doorway. Painted on a field of green with silver borders was a wooden shield, on top of which was crossed a sword, spear, and arrow.

“It was designed by lady Lúthien herself,” Mablung explained. “‘For the marchwardens are the shield of Doriath,’ she said. The three weapons were meant to be the original three captains. Ídher, the spear, Amdirgan, the bow, and myself, the sword. They are both long gone now. Died, protecting their wardens outside the girdle. Beleg was my aide de camp up until… He had grown so much… I would not have suggested him as Amdirgan’s successor if he hadn’t. Beleg was such a strong, determined lad.”

“Even the best of men can fall in battle,” Niënor said softly.

_ He did not fall in battle.  _ Mablung would not tell her that, though. When Lord Gwindor had finally sent word of the young captain’s fate, Mablung had felt pure rage for the first time in a long, long while. Túrin had been one of them. To turn your blade against another marchwarden was an unforgivable sin. Melian had been the one to calm him down, eventually.  _ She does not need to know about the accident. _

“The best of men have,” Mablung said in agreement.

“We had a servant in Dor-lómin, named Sador. He said that he saw Hador Lórindol and my grandfather fall in battle, and then my father and uncle. Sador said the ones more likely to die were the ones who cared for their fellow soldiers. It was the bravest ones who seemed to fall.” Tears fell down Niënor’s cheeks silently as she spoke. “I think, though, that Sador was very brave. And that you are very brave, Lord Mablung. I don’t think there is any sense in who lives and who dies. I have never been in battle, so perhaps it is naïvité, but one misstep… the glare of the sun… Some of the best have gone, some of the best have stayed.”

Mablung blinked twice and stared at Niënor. It was the most she had ever said at once in his presence, she was normally such a quiet girl. Niënor continued to stare up at the stone relief, her eyes soft and pitiful, her lips pursed in a tight line.

“It is harder to live, I think,” Niënor said, her voice strong and clear. “For the dead, their struggle has ended. They can rest beyond the circles of the world, or in the Halls of Mandos.” She paused to turn towards Mablung and smiled, her eyes wet with tears. “Thank you, Lord Mablung. For continuing on.”

Mablung felt his knees buckle out from underneath him. He collapsed to the ground with a solid thud, his chest heaving with sobs. Niënor knelt beside him and wrapped the captain in her arms, whispering quiet, soothing words. Soon, she was racked with her own sobs, and Mablung pulled her close and kissed the top of her brow.

“Let us keep living, then, for however long we can,” Mablung muttered between tears.


	4. Haldir: History

Haldir preferred sparring and horseback riding to studying and compiling reports, but he had understood the implications of accepting the post. The Lady of Lothlórien was not one to be left in the dark, and despite the rumors, she could not peer into all minds at once. Galadriel was merciless, too, in her expectations. Thus, Haldir was left to scour over the ledgers, finding the small discrepancy in his scribe’s reports of the budget.

“For the love of Ilúvatar,” he muttered under his breath. The numbers were beginning to blur together in the dim candle light. It was a single measly half-talent. Hardly worth the fuss, Haldir thought, likely a forgotten cost when bribing a spy in the enemy’s ranks. Yet Lady Galadriel had insisted.

Haldir grunted and pushed away from the table and scrolls of parchment. The candle flickered in protest at the sudden movement.

He walked around the room three times before slowing by the bookshelves. Haldir reached out to touch one of the well worn spines. The book was bound in dark leather and three fingers wide, with elegant white lettering embossed on the spine.  _ The Lives of the Doriathren Marchwardens. _

It had been a gift from Lord Celeborn, back when Haldir was first named a captain. He had read it dozens of times since then and certain chapters thrice that amount. When he pulled the book off the shelf, it fell open to his favorite chapter -- “Mablung of the Heavy Hand, Chief Captain of Doriath’s Marchwardens.” He had dreamed of being like Mablung as a boy. Who wouldn’t want to be the hero of Doriath?

_ Would you have been proud to let me serve under you? _ Haldir wondered, tracing a finger across the page.  _ Would you have let me join at all? _

The marchwardens of Lothlórien were talented, no doubt, but those of Doriath were the stuff of legends. Unstoppable with a blade, terrors with a bow. Under Galadriel and Celeborn, the marchwardens were rarely permitted to leave Lothlórien’s borders. Yet the Doriathren had ventured out from Melian’s Girdle constantly, even in the face of Morgoth’s hordes.

There was a knock at the door. Celeborn appeared in the doorway, smiling broadly and carrying a flagon in one hand and two cups in the other. He chuckled and nodded at the desk.

“Taking a break, I see?”

“I do not have a mind for numbers,” Haldir admitted. He strode across the room and took a cup from Celeborn. The scent of strong, spiced wine filled the air as Celeborn tilted the flagon to fill their cups.

The silver lord nodded at the book still clutched in Haldir’s hand. “Glad to see you still enjoy the gift.”

Haldir blushed, a bit self conscious at his boyish admiration for the heroes of old. “I needed to turn my mind away from numbers.”

Celeborn perched himself on the edge of the desk and reached out for the book. Haldir handed it to him and again, the book fell open to Mablung’s page once more. Celeborn chuckled and tapped the drawing of the captain with the back of his hand.

“Never trust an artist, my boy. A bunch of romantic airheads, the lot of them.”

“And you aren’t, my lord?” Haldir joked, making Celeborn snort. He leaned closer to the lord and peered down at the drawing. “But what do you mean?”

“Mablung’s nose was never that straight. Or if it was, that was well before my birth.” Celeborn clicked his tongue in dismissal. “His eyes were further apart, too, and his hair was a frizzy mess, not these smooth curls. Mablung was like an uncle to me, but his face was not nice to look upon.”

Haldir swallowed hard. It was strange to think that such a venerable man could have such a face. He brought a hand to his own chin, scarred in a hunting trip some time ago.

“It is easy to forget that you knew him,” Haldir mumbled.

“He didn’t have a mind for numbers, either,” Celeborn explained. “He used to bribe my brother and I to double check his calculations. I don’t know if Thingol ever found out…”

Celeborn closed the book and ran a hand affectionately across the cover, then handed it back to Haldir.

“I… I often wonder,” Haldir clumsily stumbled through the words, “If Lord Mablung would have let me serve under him. I have read the stories and I… I am proud to serve you my lord, have no doubt. But…” He stopped and swallowed hard.

Celeborn stared at Haldir with a quiet intensity and took a sip of the spiced wine. “Truth be told, Haldir, Mablung would have been heartbroken to know that the marchwardens were required once again. He dreamed of the day when the wardens could throw down their weapons and take up the loom or spade. Still, he had a pragmatic soul. I have no doubt he would have been proud to call you one of his men, however sorry it would have made him.”

Haldir’s ears burned with pride, though something inside of him twisted. Celeborn offered him a sympathetic look.

“I know you wonder why we keep you within Lothlórien’s borders, when the marchwardens of Doriath were so often allowed to venture outside of the girdle’s protection. It is not that we doubt your or the other wardens’ abilities.” Celeborn sighed. “There have only been a few amongst our kind with the capability of becoming a marchwarden. And now, as we dwindle from Middle-Earth… We cannot take the risk of losing you, Haldir.”

He patted Haldir on the shoulder and stood to head for the door, leaving behind the flagon of wine and ledgers for the captain.


	5. Rúmil: Companions

Marchwardens were supposed to operate in groups of three or four -- even more, should there be reason to think they might encounter an unwelcome guest. Haldir had explained it to him half a hundred times, and even Lord Celeborn had given him an earful on the subject. Rúmil thought them fools. He was never alone in the forests of Lothlórien. True, his companions slung no bows over their backs, nor carried a sword at their hips, but Rúmil preferred their company above all others.

A bird twittered further down the stream and Rúmil nudged his steed forward. The reindeer did as commanded without its typical huff of protest. Beside them stalked a slim wolf with fur the color of rich earth. Its ears twitched with interest at the bird’s soft warning, but it stayed at a pace with Rúmil.

_ I count three,  _ Rúmil thought mirthlessly.  _ Four, if you count the scout. _

Haldir would not be impressed with his logic, of course. Perhaps it would be best not to tell him. Rúmil reached down and petted the bull’s neck fondly.

“Don’t you run off and tell on me.” The reindeer sniffed. Rúmil leaned down and whispered, “That goes for you, too.”

The wolf did not so much as turn its head, but Rúmil had expected that. His companion was a serious, single-tracked kind of mind.

They were close to where the bird had called from. Rúmil realized suddenly that they were no longer within Lothlórien’s borders. He could hear the river Nimrodel pass through the trees further to the west, and the comfortable weight of Nenya’s presence no longer sat upon his shoulders. The ring was said to provide the marchwardens with heightened strength and awareness, and the lack of it made Rúmil feel oddly light. He would enjoy the challenge.

The bird’s call came again and Rúmil closed his eyes to find the cause of its warnings. The creatures were not difficult to locate. Twigs snapped beneath their weight and their metal trappings creaked and clanked as the orcs trampled across the forest floor. There were four, no, five of them.

One growled, then coughed, as if the fresh air polluted its lungs.“I can’t smell anything over this damned river,” Rúmil imagined it had said.

Another answered what Rúmil assumed to be along the lines of, “Shut up, just keep moving.”

Rúmil smiled and drew his bow and nocked the first arrow. His wolf whined softly and earned a withering glare in response.

He let the arrow fly. It zipped through the air with a high squeal, piercing the back of what Rúmil thought to be the most hideous of the creatures. Stunned, the orc turned around to find his killer, but the second arrow was already in the air. It hit the orc with a satisfying thump through the neck and the creature fell to the ground, black blood staining the forest floor.

Rúmil released one more arrow before he motioned to the wolf. It sprinted towards the orcs, sinking its teeth into the one who had complained about the river just as Rúmil felled a second orc. One of the survivors drew its axe and tried to hack the beast off his dying companion, and the wolf twisted and jerked its prey between it and the orc. The other survivor, clever enough to realize the wolf had not been responsible for the arrows, clutched at its mace and peered into the forest.

Rúmil considered nocking another arrow, but Haldir’s voice rang in his ears.  _ You rely too much on the bow. What will you do if pressed into close quarters? _

In his brief hesitation, the orc spotted him. It let out a harsh, strangled battle cry and charged clumsily towards Rúmil. Even Rúmil could admit that it was a brave display, to charge at a mounted foe. But the orc was armed with a mace, not a spear. Still, Rúmil would respect the orc’s determination.

In an instant, Rúmil had tossed his bow aside and dismounted from the bull, rushing towards the orc with sword in hand to meet it on a more even field. The orc’s yellow eyes widened in surprise. It raised its mace defensively, but Rúmil was too quick.

Rúmil grimaced as specks of black blood landed on his cheek. The orc’s head flew in one direction while the body fell to the other. Rúmil continued forward.

The wolf had released his prey and the orc was kneeling against a tree, panting heavily. It held one hand to its neck, vainly trying to stop the blood from pouring out, and grapsed a dagger in the other. Slick red blood coated the dark steel and Rúmil felt his heart sink. Both orcs were still focused on the wolf and shouted obscenities at the animal in a tongue Rúmil could not comprehend. It snarled at them and snapped its jaws, but did not leap forward. Based on its movements, the wound could not be too deep, but Rúmil would not take the risk.

He ran toward the uninjured orc and screamed. It screamed back and slashed furiously in Rúmil’s direction, but was only able to stay off two or three swings before Rúmil ducked low and kicked the orc’s legs out from under it. The monster’s shout of surprise cut off suddenly, turning into a grunt of pain. Rúmil kicked the corpse off his sword with some effort and turned to the remaining creature.

Its breathing was already shallow and its eyes glazed over, like it knew there was no escape. Rúmil eyed it carefully, then whistled to the wolf. He reached into his pocket for a salve, made by the hand of Lady Galadriel herself. He warmed it between his fingers. The wolf growled when he rubbed it against the wound, but did not shirk away. All the while, it watched the orc with cautious apprehension. 

By the time he had cleaned the wound, Rúmil could no longer detect the orc’s heartbeat. It slunk down and rested against the tree at an unnatural angle. Rúmil ruffled the wolf’s fur appreciatively.

“You can have them, if you want,” Rúmil offered. The wolf tilted its head and stared at him with wide eyes, then turned from the scene and trotted back towards the reindeer. Rúmil followed and sniffed at his shirt.

_ I will have to wash before returning,  _ he thought, picturing another of Haldir’s tirades.


	6. Orophin: Freedom

_ “A prodigy with the blade.” _

_ “The greatest fighter on this side of the Hithaeglir born in the last millennia.” _

_ “His brother must be proud, to have the little one follow in their footsteps.” _

Orophin hissed and wiped at his eyes before the tears could fall down pale cheeks. He had thought, naïvely, that it would be different upon taking the vows. That he would find their whispers inspiring, rather than a burden to live up to. Hadn’t he done it? Proved himself a worthy brother to Haldir and Rúmil, useful to the people of Lothlórien?

His face was hot, despite the shade. Orophin caught sight of his reflection in the pool. Red-eyed and snot nosed, like a sniveling child. No one who stumbled upon him would think him a marchwarden in the service of Lady Galadriel. Orophin was still a child, albeit one dressed in his elder brother’s clothing.

The worst of it was the hollowness in his chest. The desperate, gnawing hollowness that settled so deeply into his bones. Being named a marchwarden was supposed to have fixed that. It should have filled him with a sense of purpose, given him the chance to escape the shadows of his brothers. Instead, Orophin felt that when Lady Galadriel had draped the gray cloak across his back, she had placed an unbearable weight upon his shoulders.

_ I have said the words _ , Orophin realized with horror. His hands wrung the gray clothing anxiously.  _ I am trapped. It is too late. _

His breath turned shallow and ragged. His fingers trembled as he unclasped the cloak and shook it off from him. It shone brilliantly under the moonlight. Who was Orophin to throw such a thing on the ground? He was but a boy, too foolish to accept the responsibilities of his post. Why,  _ why _ had they given it to him? He could swing a sword, yes, but that was in the practice yard alongside his brothers and friends. It was not the same to charge at an enemy whose intent was to injure more than pride.

Haldir’s crooked smile entered Orophin’s mind unbidden. Haldir had wrapped an arm around his shoulders and called him a brother twice over. Rúmil, always so quiet and reserved, had even offered him a true, twinkling smile. What did they think now, of their little brother who had slunk into darkness, away from his own celebration?

It was not too late, a small, irrational part of him argued. He could take flight from the Golden Wood and find a place in Mirkwood. He had heard that the king there held little respect for the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. Lindon was out of the question. Círdan would hear of Orophin’s treachery and send him back to face his shame. Orophin had heard tales of elves who slipped into Gondor unnoticed, disguising themselves as a lowly descendant of Tar-Minyatur. Perhaps he, too, could—

“You do not speak the common tongue, Orophin.”

Lady Galadriel walked down the steps to the shimmering pool. She sat down on one of the smooth marble benches, her silver-blue eyes flickering only briefly to the discarded cloak. A light smile played on her lips.

“Sit.”

He did as commanded, silently taking the seat beside her. “I…”

“I asked Thingol why he had the marchwardens take their vows out of the public eye once,” Galadriel said. “He said it was none of my business. I thought he was being a nasty brute at the time, but he had a point, no?”

Orophin opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally managing, “My lady?”

“When my husband led you through your vows, why did you accept them.”

“Because, I…” What was it? Pride? Envy? Orophin felt the tears well once more. “I do not know.”

Galadriel patted his hand patiently, then bent down to pick the cloak up from off the ground and dust it off. She folded the fabric neatly. “I should not have let it go this far. Haldir was so insistent that you were ready and I admit, I have not seen another with your skill at arms since… It does not matter. My point is that I have made a mistake in letting you swear the vows of a marchwarden. Yet a vow sworn with a false heart is no vow at all. Consider yourself free of this burden, Orophin.”

Icy terror mixed with hot relief. Orophin stammered some unintelligible protest before finding his voice. “No! My lady, Haldir will never forg--”

“The post of a marchwarden is worth more than your pride, child.” Galadriel’s voice was stern. “I have grown lax in overseeing the order during this long peace. This is not your fault. I take full responsibility for this oversight.”

She stood to go, but Orophin launched to his feet and stepped between her and the stairs. Beads of sweat collected on his brow and his knees felt as if they might buckle from beneath him. If the lady voided his vows, then Orophin would have no choice but to leave Lothlórien. It would not be a boy’s fancy. He could not face Haldir and Rúmil again. Could not face the people of Doriath.  _ Outcast, failure. Is that what I am? _

“Let me prove myself,” Orophin begged. “I will wear the cloak. I will do as you command. Please.” His voice cracked on the word.

Galadriel regarded him carefully, her lips pursed with slight disapproval. “No.”

“I--”

“I will finish, Orophin.” He snapped his mouth shut at the thunder in her tone. Galadriel waited a beat to be certain of his silence, then continued. “I will not hold you to your vows. You are free of them.  _ However,  _ I will not tell Haldir of this. It is your choice, whether to fight beside your brothers or stay behind. Your choice to follow the captain’s commands or not. It is a freedom no marchwarden is granted. And if you decide, after however long, that you wish to take the vows, I will hear them in private. But you must have an answer for me then, Orophin, for why you would swear yourself to the marchwardens.”

Orophin fell to his knees, his head spinning at her words. Galadriel gave him one last pitiful glance, then strode past him.

_ Free?  _ The word sounded foreign, even in the safety of his own mind.  _ Free? _


End file.
